we are the fun percent

From TORONTO,
December 5th, 2011
Dear Talent Agency by which I am represented,
I recently sent a hopeful letter to my agent, who is a relatively recent addition to your company, asking whether there would be an agency Christmas party. The following was her unedited reply:
"No, they don't do those here."
I did not leave my bed in the week that followed.
Let me explain my position. Sitting on a chair in my living room, one leg tucked under me, rather grossly hunched over my keyboard; terrible posture, quite frankly.
No, not that position. This one:
I was self-represented for many years. I was so obviously untalented and unattractive that no one wanted to rep me. Or maybe it was the fact that I had a habit of cutting my own boy-short hair, and  agents were afraid I would be unmarketable, looking as I did like a crazed escapee from the Scarborough School for Worse Boys. Regardless.
When I did eventually grow out the bald spots and get an agent, she was a solo self-employed one, operating out of her high-rise one-bedroom apartment, her work mainly consisting of throwing her clients' résumés from the balcony and hoping they would land on the desk of an interested casting director. When she didn't opt to have a holiday party, there was a small sigh of relief from me and her other six clients, none of whom had relished the idea of singing carols on the couch with her Santa-hat-wearing cats and passing around a dusty bottle of Kahlua.
Meanwhile we heard rumours of the BIG AGENCIES and their BIG PARTIES; their wild-and-crazy goings-on, their open bars, their dressed-to-the-nines-ness and dancing. I dreamed of being invited as someone's guest, but it seemed everyone always brought a boyfriend or girlfriend or wife, and I was left out in the not-only proverbial cold, staring, in my threadbare parka, through a bit of fogged-up window, hoping that one of the guests would throw me a bit of a cheeseball or toss a dazzling smile my way.
Eventually the big agencies stopped allowing their clients to bring dates, a sensible austerity measure in the face of our struggling industry in those, as our friend Joe Cobden once put it, "hilarious economic times". Others joined me with their faces pressed against those windows. More still stayed at home and ate gruel and played at solitaire.
In 2005, I joined a medium-sized agency; only two agents but with plenty of impressive clients, an assistant in the front room, and an office that did not convert into a sleeping area at night. No cats. Hooray, I thought, this is my chance! December 2005, here I come! We may have to buy our own drinks, but just let me at those canapés!!!
Alas, Caldwell Jeffery had held what was to be its last Christmas party in 2004. The year I signed with them I remember them saying that they'd hopefully get around to planning a post-holiday gathering in January, which I believe they actually did. I was in Winnipeg, doing a play and dutifully sending home my commission, which may have paid for the streamers. I've never been sure whether to take that personally.
In 2010, as you know, Dear Agency, Shari Caldwell retired, and the Jeffery in Caldwell Jeffery went to work for you. A BIG FAT AGENCY, one of those whose parties I had shivered outside of, sniffing teary-eyed at their schmoozy good-cheer. Imagine my disappointment when I received Alicia's afore-quoted email.
I know it's not just you, Characters Toronto. I know it's not even our industry. I know that companies everywhere, in all business sectors, have cut back on perks like parties and dinners and gifts. My father, one recent Christmas, received as recognition for another profit-posting year of hard work, a Tim Horton's gift card in a red envelope. But at least he once — for a few decades, in fact — experienced the heyday of Christmas parties past. I was a KID in the eighties; those days passed me by! And now? What of the young actors born in the eighties or nineties, for whom, with fewer living witnesses each year, the legends of coked-up rehearsal halls and sex in the green room are becoming more and more faded and wan, less and less easy to believe? Do we bear no responsibility to them, or to the long-held traditions of our acting, singing, dancing and lampshade-wearing forebears?
What of the entire city, nay country, whose citizens should be able to look to their artists for examples of salacious gossip and hedonistic pleasure: who will the drones have to live vicariously through, if not us?
    
This one small outlet, but once a year: this is all I ask.
For, quite simply put, nothing happens anymore. I've taken to buying vintage gossip on etsy.com. It's just not the same.
 
Now and then we do hear of someone leaving her spouse and kid — but is she running off to live on an orgiastic, drug-filled commune; to smoke crack and sell guns and have rampant anal with underage hookers? Not usually. More likely, she's just amicably wandering off to find a new spouse and have another damn kid. Borrrrrrr-ring.
Gossip now:
 
“Did you hear? So-and-so and whats-her-name split up!”
"You're kidding! Was there someone else?"
“No, it just didn't work out and they're both very sad. I hear they're having trouble deciding who should keep all their stuff....he insists she should take everything, and she wants him to have it."
"Awww."
"In other news…I hear whos-his-face and whos-his-face are renovating their kitchen.”
“NO!”
"It's true!"

Gossip after an office holiday party:
“Did you hear? So-and-so left whats-her-name!”
“Well, after all those people eating her out on the bar at the agency party, I gotta say I'm not all that surprised."
”Oh yeah! I think I was there for that!”
”There for that?? You were handing out the limes and salt!”
”Oh YEAH. Well, what happens under the mistletoe—”
”—Stays under the mistletoe.”
“…Speaking of which - have you seen my watch?”
(Dear Agency, I can't believe I just made the ol' watch-in-vagina joke. Do you see what you've driven me to?! Things are more dire than even I had realized. Save me from myself.)
Listen, I hate to sound paranoid, but should I be taking this personally? Do you fear that I’ll dance on the tables and make a fool of myself? In that case, it might be a good time for this confession, Dear Agency:
At age 36, I have yet to actually dance on a table. I did once, very recently (EXHIBIT A), wear my first lampshade, but that was not in a burst of drunken, party-down idiocy: it was merely punishment at the hands of my asshole friends for having lost too many hands in a row of "Stoned Bastard". We weren't even stoned at the time. In fact, it was the most boring experience of my life. I hate you, Andy and Jeff.


                    EXHIBIT A. MAN, THIS EXHIBIT SUCKS.

In any case, the lampshade thing is not likely to happen. Most bars don't have proper lamps with shades on them, for one thing. And no one's gonna dance around with a halogen bulb on his head.
As for table dancing, my opportunities are thinning out. How much do I actually leave the house, to begin with, let alone to land in an environment with A: enticingly high tables, and B: People who will encourage such behaviour? If not at an office Christmas party, when and where will my chance present itself?
Please, I'm begging you, provide the opportunity now, lest I, desperate and determined at age fifty, clamber onto the table of a local, half-empty drinking establishment, only to be quietly helped down by an embarrassed young barkeep who then discreetly confiscates my glass of cheap cabernet. Please let this happen where at least one person will whoop and where at least Shauna Black will join me.

Have your lawyers warned you of liability issues related to office Christmas parties? Are you concerned about possible drinking and driving? Where, I ask, are we all driving to? And in what? We're actors: three of us have cars, and only one of those three can afford gas. And in a week or two that will no longer be the case, so you needn't concern yourselves about that. (Besides, there are even actors who don't drink who can function as designated drivers. I know they exist: when I joined the union I had to promise to drink enough to make up for anyone who quit. I'm currently up to five.) So at worst we may spill into the streets and be loud and obnoxious in cabs and on streetcars. But it has been well documented that actors are on average 80% better looking and 22% more charming than your typical drunk, and in 96% more dialects. Our Irish accents alone will delight and entertain our fellow TTC travelers from The Beaches all the way to Parkdale. And back, should we get lost or fall asleep.
You have rosters packed chock-a-block with attractive, charismatic single (or, you know, not strictly monogamous) people. Together we have the potential to make one helluva party and some very sweet love; why would you want to keep us apart? Are you afraid of the nuclear-grade celebratory power that would potentially be unleashed? Or. Dare I ask...?
...Does the Harper government have something to do with all this? Does our fearless federal leader suspect that a tightly-packed communion of so many arty pinkos with nothing to lose could create something akin to a merry yuletide terrorist cell? Or, that in our inevitable pairings-off, one fateful couple with one fateful hole in one fateful condom may just create the next great magnetic leader of the left? RISE UP, Dear Toronto branch of the Characters Talent Agency, RISE UP! Don't pander to the PMO; don't fear them! We're the cool kids! Or we could be! Stand with us! We are the fun percent!
Have you learned nothing from the worldwide Occupy movement? One of these days, Dear Agency, if one is not provided, we may just storm the office and make our own party. Sit on the floor and drink egg nog and play spin the demo.
Oh, and we'll need the photocopy code so we can replicate this bum-Xeroxing thing we've all heard about from old reruns of Rhoda and Newhart. Party animals, we are. Come on, you were all there in the eighties. You had all your hair and your desks were full of blow and you partied your shoulder pads right off. Show us the way.

SAY, ISN’T THIS AGENCY PRESIDENT LARRY GOLDHAR AT THE 1992 PARTY? MUSTA BEEN COLD. MAN, YOU GUYS WERE INTREPID.

But assuming you get on board (and I do have faith), you had better plan this soon. We'll need a little notice, to get out of our shifts...catering other people's office Christmas parties.

Yours, just sitting here alone in my stilettos,
waiting,


Lisa Norton

Skepterminator 2: Judgment Day

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quiet riot (cum on feel the…poise?)

 

From VANCOUVER,

June 19th, 2011

 

I’m the first to admit…things got a little out of control.

The game had just ended and we were angry and shocked and upset. The atmosphere in Sarah Cobb’s West End apartment was tense and just ready to blow.

We heard a crash from the kitchen. Ashley, washing wine glasses in a frenzy of rage, had broken one.

Stacie threw a napkin on the floor.

Nick uttered the word “fuck” several times in rapid succession.

Jacquie was so mad she wasn’t even there.

The other women suddenly banded together and, in a case of classic mob mentality, began looting the apartment, raiding a box of clothes that Sarah was getting rid of with a savage ferocity.

Shaughnessy, who had flown all the way from Toronto for this, was turning a dangerous shade of red. “Man, if I had a hockey stick I would bust some shit right now. Luckily, I just have this pencil.”

Toby grabbed the pencil from Shaughnessy’s hand. “Hey man - did you have this pencil here the whole game?! This is a Sanford Number One, asshole! Don’t you realize that this pencil is painted the exact same shade as Bruin yellow? And that the Sanford Pencil Company was founded in Massachusetts?! How DARE you bring that pencil into this city, let alone this house?” He threw the offending utensil on the floor and grabbed Shaughnessy by the collar of his threadbare Canucks t-shirt, shaking him back and forth. The other men backed away to the hors d’oeuvre table, trying to avoid this sudden outburst by munching on some delicious charcuterie.

A roar came from the Designated Looting Area in the other room as the ladies discovered a one-shouldered summer dress and proceeded to tear it to pieces.

Shaughnessy scrambled to defend himself. “Sanford’s now a subsidiary of Newell Rubbermaid and based in Oak Brook, Illinois!” Toby’s right fist was cocked and ready to throw a punch but now he hesitated. “This pencil was manufactured in their Mississauga, Ontario factory by proud Canadians!” The grip of Toby’s left hand on Shaughnessy’s collar loosened slightly. “This shade of yellow also matches that of the old Vancouver “flying skate” logo, used from ‘78-‘97, as evidenced by the faded but still sufficiently clear t-shirt I am wearing go Canucks!”

Toby let him go. They hugged. The women shredded a pair of navy blue capris.

“That’s it,” said Mike, who had sat silent all this time, his post-game pout looking more and more menacing with every passing minute, his rage increasing as he checked Facebook on his iPhone and read the taunts of his asshole Ontario friends saying horrible things like “Nah nah na-na nahhh” and “Maybe next time”. He now made a sudden and threatening move up out of the leather armchair. “I’m gonna go downtown and throw an egg at the bank of Montreal.”

“Hey now, whoa, let’s not get carried away,” said the others. John handed him a slice of prosciutto and one of those squishy stress balls. “Here. This should help.”

“Thanks, guys,” said Mike, sitting back down. “Wow, I was really out of control for a second there. Thanks for talking me down.”

                       BEFORE THINGS TURNED UGLY

But the calm would not last long. After smoking an unhappy cigarette, and an even angrier joint on the pretty balcony overlooking the ocean, we were all raring to go. We girls had each scored a garbage bag full of clothing, but now Sarah was telling us we couldn’t have her dishcloths and fridge magnets. The men had eaten all the brie and oven roasted tomatoes. Clearly, we needed an outlet.

Out we poured from the apartment building, spilling drunkenly, rowdily onto the mean streets of English Bay, wielding bottles of Heineken and pinot grigio at threatening angles. I looked around for someone to pick a fight with and settled on a Chihuahua being walked in the park across the street. “What are YOU barking at, motherfucker? I will fuck you up!” The dog and the old man walking it hurried away. “That’s RIGHT, you BETTER run!”

We stumbled across the street and onto the beach, all ten or so of us, and sat down on some comfortable-looking logs in an intimidating manner, where we would continue to wreak our havoc on the City of Vancouver for the rest of the night. We savagely kicked the sand, utterly destroyed some innocent twigs and then, in a burst of violence unprecedented thus far, gathered rocks and started throwing them viciously at the ocean. “Take THAT, Pacific!”

The savage beast inside each one of us had taken over and there was no turning back, not that night. We were monsters.

I was so ashamed of myself the next day. I headed back to Sarah’s apartment to apologize. To her credit, she let me in and accepted my offer to help clean up. The place was in a sorry state, still the wreck we had left it. Crumbs everywhere. Empties on the counter. For the love of God, a kalamata olive on the floor. It was hard to look at, especially knowing that I was partly to blame.

Then, as I was sweeping up, the others started to arrive, with brooms and offers of help. We swept and scrubbed and spent several hours reassembling a large jigsaw puzzle that had been savagely knocked to the floor. Soon, a spirit of love and cooperation spread throughout the rooms, a spirit stronger and more true than any of the ugliness of the night before. This was The Real Us. The Real Vancouver.

I picked up a Sharpie from the coffee table. (Also manufactured by Newell Rubbermaid, if you were wondering.) Standing on the couch, I wrote upon the wall in three foot high letters: I ♥ VANCOUVER.

And you know what, Dear Reader? It wasn’t long before everyone else joined me. We passed the Sharpie from hand to hand to hand, each person writing a heartfelt message about his or her true feelings of pride and love for this city, of contrition for rash actions the night before, of hope for the future and togetherness in this beautiful moment.

The living room walls were now covered. We stood back, arms linked, tears in our eyes. Sarah walked into the room and, while she’d been in the kitchen and had missed out on the actual ritual, you could tell from her face that she was as moved by the result as the rest of us were.

She just stood there staring, absolutely speechless.

__________________________________________________________

* Now: this is not for the faint of heart, and some of it is difficult to watch…but here, if you must, is video evidence of our riot on Sunset Beach. Note particularly Jaimie and Jenny’s flagrant insolence toward the photographer and Josh’s terrifying ferocity.

(Not suitable for children.)

blue

He didn’t usually drink. It wasn’t a good idea, with all the pills. And tonight he’d had a lot.

“You wan’ the lasso, Mary? I’ll sthrow a moon aroun’ it! Hooowwwweeeeeeee!”

He was slurring his words, he knew. But maybe he liked slurring his words. Maybe he meant to do it. It was FUN. It was liberating. HA! LIBER-ating? Is this how the Liberals felt all the time? Was Jean Chretien off somewhere, wheeling around, doing whatever the hell he felt like doing? Probably. That made him depressed again. He took another swig of the schnapps and dropped back on the wet grass. He howled at the moon.

It had been a wild night, starting at two-thirty am, his security detail first chasing him out of the hotel in the pouring rain as he ran across the parking lot to Jason Kenney’s rented SUV, bottles from the mini-bar spilling out of his suit jacket pockets. He’d gotten in the car, starting it with the keys he’d swiped when Kenney had passed out drunk on his bed.

Steve had looked down at his snoring immigration minister, lying there all smug and pink, triumphant with his overwhelming victory in Calgary Southeast that night, hogging the entire hotel bedspread. Yeah, I won my riding too, big frickin’ whoop, that’s not the point.

“Forget you, Kenney”, muttered Steve. “You aren’t even listening to me. I tried to tell yooou, I tried to tell you how I feel. And look at you. Screwww you.” A lump came to his throat. He didn’t like it. Jason was sleeping on his back with his mouth agape, and for a moment Steve thought of sticking something in it. “Let you choke, you jerk, ‘d serve you right.” And then he saw the keys.

Screeching out of the hotel parking lot, round corners, howling down the quiet wet suburban streets of Calgary Southwest, the two bodyguards on his tail in one of the Cadillacs. When he’d skidded up onto a curb and then fallen out of the car, subsequently running from lawn to lawn, pulling up campaign signs, they’d tried to talk sense to him. But he wouldn’t have it. For one thing, he wouldn’t stop singing.

“I GET BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY—”

“Shuddup!” yelled a man behind a screen door.

Dogs were barking behind every fence.

The guards had watched, helpless, unsure what to do, as he’d surrounded himself with the signs, knocking each into the wet ground with the post of the next and barricading himself, eventually, inside a circle of them on someone’s front lawn. He held onto one of the signs for balance and stared at it. The big C for conservative, glowing in the dark. His name, coming in and out of focus, the blurry blue and white. “Go Leafs!” he shouted. “Losers! Just like meeeee!”

The bigger of the guards reached for his tazer. “That’s it, he said,”I’m takin’ him down.” The other stopped him: “No, Jim, wait. Is that strictly necessary?” “ ‘Strictly necessary’? Oh man! When AM I gonna get to use this thing? First no eleven year old kids, now this? Besides, this is getting embarrassing – the press could show up any minute. We gotta get him outta here.”

“Just let me talk to him.”

“HE’S A REEEEEAL NOWHERE MAN, SITTING IN HIS NOWHERE LAND, MAKING ALL HIS NOWHERE PLANS FOR NOBODEEeeeee…”

Another neighbour: “Keep it down, we’re trying to sleep!”

“I WILL NOT,” he shouted, reeling back, face pointed at the drizzling dark sky. “You can’t tell me what to do NO MORE! No more Mister Cares-what-you-say! I’m on the right track baby, I was born thi-is wa-a-ay!” He lost his balance and fell back on the lawn. His head knocked against one of the sign posts. “Aww, jeez,” he said. “Now my azz is wet.” He started to giggle. Then cry. He curled up in a ball, shaking with sobs, shivering, tears and snot running sideways down his face and pooling in his ear.

He was so alone. So lonely. No one understood. “Laureeeeeeeeen!,” he shouted. Then, “Stellaaaaaaa!”

The squeak of a window. “I’m calling the police!” One of the security guys – was it Barry or Jim, Steven suddenly realized he’d never known which one was which - on his hands and knees, reaching through the signposts. A hand on his shoulder, gentle. “Mister Harper. Sir. It’s time to go.”

“Iz Steeeve! Why duzzin anybody call me Steeeve? It’s been so lonnng!”

“Okay, Steve. Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

“I wanna play the Playstation witchu guys!”

“Okay, Steve, we’ll do that. We’ll have some beers.”

“How come you never invited me?! I’s in the next room! ALL ALOOONE!”

“We didn’t think you’d want to, Steve. We…uhh…figured you were busy.”

“I wanna play Digimon! Like you guys!”

“Okay, Steve. Hey, you know what we’ve got now? Wii bowling. You’d like that one.”

“Tha’ sounds fun. Can I wear your hat?”

“Of course you can, Steve. Here you go.”

“Hey! Whuzz yer name anyway? Which one are you? You wan’ some Bailey’s?” He cracked another mini bottle.

“My name is Bar—”

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Hold on, Steve. Hold on. Just breathe. Focus on something.”

They started to pull out the signs, the burly men, as the flashing cop car lights approached. They helped him up from where he sat trembling, snot-nosed, staring at his hand. They walked him towards their car, his arms around their enormous shoulders. “I’m focuzzing, Jim, look I’m focuzzing.” “That’s real good, Steve.”

“Ah poop. I zink I lozzzt my glasses.

“We’ll find them, sir.”

They slid on the wet grass and wiped out in a heap.

The Global and CTV vans screeched up at the same time as the cruiser. Reporters leapt out of the doors, cameras and microphones in hands. “Mister Harper, is that you?” “Call me Steve,” he bellowed. “Is is true that you’ve been drinking?” “FUCK YEAH,” yelled Steve, into their shocked faces, giving one cameraman the finger.

Ha HAW! – he could swear now. “Fuck fuck fuck! Titty shit McFucker!” Oh sweet Jesus, that felt good. It had been years. He’d submitted himself to that rigorous Reform Party leadership program in 92, been hooked up to electrodes and shocked whenever he thought an impure thought or uttered a bad word.

Now, Steven realized, he really could do anything he wanted, just like Jean Chretien. What was there to stop him? He could wear a t-shirt! Go a day – two, even - without shaving. Have sex with men if he felt like it. Would he feel like it? He had no idea! It had been years since he’d even allowed himself to wonder such a thing. He could get an abortion! Okay, technically he couldn’t, but well, whatever the male equivalent was; he’d do that!

He grabbed a cute CTV blond and kissed her on the mouth. “Hey baby! You wan’ some tequila? I got these li’l bottles. See?” She stared in shock.

Jim-or-was-it-Barry pried him away, tried to block the reporters’ view, hustling him into the back seat, and firmly closed the door, while Barry-or-was-it-Jim talked to the Calgary cops.

He could still see the press in the windows, eager faces, microphones. He could hear fragments of their muffled, frantic questions, shouted through the glass. “—disturbing the peace”…“—you and Mrs Harper?”… “What now, Sir? What’s your next move?”

Steven popped out of the sunroof as the car sped away. “I’m going to Disney Land!” he called out behind him. “And I just farted!!!”

orange

WEYBURN, SASKATCHEWAN, SEPTEMBER 2010

Well, the genie was unexpected. I mean, who believes in genies, let alone expects one to pop out of the nose of a Tommy Douglas statue? Less than three percent of Canadians, that’s who, according to polls taken since 1982. And of those three, only .08 “strongly believe”; the rest believe in genies only “slightly”. (And even if they existed, who expected them to be orange? They were supposed to be blue, weren’t they, and talk like Robin Williams? This one didn’t even have the nose ring, it had glasses, and looked…well, like Tommy Douglas.)

Jack wasn’t in either of those categories of belief. He was in the “genies died out in the eighteenth century” camp, as per the accepted wisdom at his alma mater, McGill University.

When he had taken out his handkerchief and rubbed the foot of the Tommy Douglas statue, he had done it not looking for a magical shortcut to fortune, and not even, as you may suspect, out of some vague superstitious hope that it would give him luck in his political career. Sure, he’d wandered back here, alone, hours after the unveiling ceremony, but that was just because he couldn’t sleep. And the statue was pretty, he thought it might look nice and shiny in the moonlight. As for the rubbing, he had merely noticed that there was bird poop on the foot; he was trying to wipe it off.

“I AM THE GENIE OF THE NOSE OF TOMMY DOUGLAS!” shouted the genie. “AND I GRANT YOU THREE WISHES!”

Jack shit his pants. “Oh. Oh! This is gross. I’m…sorry. Ugh.”

“I can fix that for you, if you wish,” said the genie.

“Aw, would ya? That’d be swell.

Shazam. “Thanks a ton.” The genie snicked a little snicker. “Waaait,” said Jack, “When you said ‘If you wish’, you didn’t mean—”

“Of course I did! Jeez, man, have you never watched any cartoons? We get you with that one every time!…Though usually in cartoons it’s not about somebody crapping himself.”

“Dammit,” said Jack. And let me guess, no wishing for—”

“Extra wishes? No. Obviously. Now what’s your sec—”

“Tickets to the U2 concert!”

“Done.”

They appeared instantly in Jack’s hands, two gleaming tickets for U2 at the ACC next July, not right up front, but not bad either, Row K on the side. Olivia would be so pleased. They’d managed to score seats last time and then Bono threw his back out. He was proud he’d thought of this one.

“You do know,” said the genie, “That scalper prices go way down twenty minutes in.”

“What and miss half of Zooropa? Not on your life, bud.”

Now it was time for Jack to think long and hard and honestly. This next wish, the third and final one; the thing he was contemplating wishing for – was he sure he wanted it? Could he do it justice?

Oh hell yes.

And yet…he almost daren’t say it. For years, any time he’d even skirted around this, come close to mentioning it, even with those on his own team, he’d been laughed at.

He beckoned the genie closer, raised his mouth to a big orange ear and whispered.

“Sure thing,” said the genie, “Not a problem. Shazam and all that.”

Jack could not believe it. Couldn’t process what had happened. He pinched himself. He bit his lip. Punched himself in the face. No, apparently he wasn’t dreaming. He threw his arms around the genie in gratitude, squeezed with all the strength of his undying thanks. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Okay, okay,” said the genie. “Now I feel bad. I gotta tell you. You just threw away your final wish. Truth is, that one was gonna happen anyway, with or without me.”

“You must be joking!”

“No, seriously, it’s your time. Think of all the karma you’ve built up over the years. Sticking with your party even when most people dismissed it as a joke? Being saddled with orange on all your signs? I mean what a pansy, third-rate colour. And nobody looks good in it – trust me, I know. Plugging away with so little reward? Look, I know unfair: before this I spent nine years stuck inside that god-awful painting of Douglas looking out over a wheat field – at least now I get some fresh air. But you! A Ph.D. from York University, of all places? And teaching at RYERSON, for pity’s sake? The prostate thing? The hip surgery?”

“The what now?”

“Nothing. That time you rode your bike into a newspaper box and had to cancel your honeymoon? Talk about embarrassing. And pictures like this?”

“And this?”

“Okay, that last one is kind of sexy”, admitted the genie, making the photos vanish again. “But what about the topper, the whole inheritance thing? What a cruel joke, for your father to have stipulated in his will that you wouldn’t get a cent until the day you became prime minister, and only then if you wore a ridiculous moustache until then? I mean, come on, longest playoff moustache ever.”

“Yeah, old Dad had a strange sense of humour. I remember when he became a Conservative for thirteen years, just as a joke. What a card! Anyway, I gotta say, I like the moustache now. And maybe Pop knew what he was doing - it helped build character. That’s why my Mike’s middle name is Jennifer. Besides, Olivia thinks the ‘stache is hot.”

“And it will help you with Quebeckers. Boy, they love their moustaches, those frenchies. What’s up with that?”

“Don’t ask me. But hey, I’ll take it.”

They laughed.

“By the way, Genie…how do you know all these things about me?”

“What, you think just because I live up the nose of a statue of a long-dead politician in Weyburn Saskatchewan, I’m out of touch? I have ways of knowing things.”

“Magic?”

“Wireless signals. If it weren’t for that, this indenture thing would be way more of a drag. Seriously, you should read Anne Murray’s personal emails – disgusting!”

“I can imagine. That little minx.”

“You know, I like you Jack. I don’t know what it is. The smile? The tan? Those twinkly baby blues? And you’re right, the moustache does grow on you. Anyway, I feel bad about you getting gypped on your wishes.”

“What are you talking about, Genie? I’m going to the U2 concert!”

“Uhh, about that…they’ll be cancelling again.”

“Oh no. Bono’s back injury?”

“No, the Edge this time. The Big C, I’m afraid.”

“Oh that’s terrible,” said Jack. “The Edge has cancer?”

“Chicken pox, man! Wow, I can never get the hang of human slang. Is ‘bad’ still good?”

“No”, said Jack, “Epic hashtag fail there, I’m afraid.”

“Are you still speaking English?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But seriously, Jack, before I go…one piece of advice. That raid back in ‘96?”

“At my registered massage therapist’s?”

“Yeah. Just stick to that. Now let’s see…what else? Oh- I’ve got these magic beans – you want some?”

Jack smiled, shook the genie’s huge orange hand, and headed out into the Saskatchewan night.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m good.”

red

Michael hated dumplings. Or did he fear them? Yes, it was fear, this feeling; blind, abject terror.

It was skin they made him think of. Human skin. Full of…human meat.

Jowls. Gall bladders.

Or he thought of a picture he’d seen of baby mice, all curled up and blind, translucent skin. Eating a dumpling was like biting into one of those; he kept expecting it to squeak and writhe and wriggle in his mouth.

Who had chosen dumplings? Why hadn’t he been asked?

The crowd outside the bus was oppressive. He couldn’t catch his breath. Next to him was whatsername, the candidate, all smiles. Wait – what was her name? He’d gone blank. How could he have gone blank like this? Shit, what was it?! He’d be expected to say something, raise her hand up high, call out…Karen. Kate? K…Ka…Christine! Phew. That would have been terrible.

He wished Zsuzsanna was here. Today of all days. A doctor’s appointment, of all things. “You’ll be fine”, she’d told him on the phone. “It’s just pasta. It’s like a ravioli. You’ll only have to eat just one.” I know, he’d said, I know. He didn’t have the heart to tell he he was scared of ravioli too. Wontons were the worst, perogies not much better. Oh God – Roncesvalles wasn’t on the itinerary, was it? They could make it borscht, he loved borscht…he’d have it leaked, some story about his grandfather and beets grown in the backyard, in the homeland. Yes. Borscht.

But now it was the dumpling. Any minute now. No way out. No turning back.

“We love you Iggy!'”, someone shouted. Dumpling, he thought. Dumpling dumpling dumpling.

He knew it was irrational. But look, he’d known someone once who was afraid of purses. That’s the thing about phobias: logic has nothing to do with them. At least his wasn’t purses, they were everywhere. That friend had given up his early political aspirations, dropped out of the university, withdrawn to his mother’s basement. There but for the grace of God, thought Michael. On the other hand, look at where he’d landed himself: no one would ever ask his school friend to eat someone’s purse. And no one would be filming it.

Hello, cameras, Hello! Yes, I’m extremely excited to be here! Oh, what a great neighbourhood! CHRISTINE will represent this riding very well!

They were getting closer. Sweat formed all along his hairline. He kept smiling. Don’t drip down, sweat. Stay right where you are.

A path cleared to the door. The sign, Dumpling House Restaurant. In neon underneath: “Got Dumpling?” He gagged involuntarily. Pretend that it’s a cough. Breathe. And whatever you do, do not throw up…

Back on the bus, the tiny bathroom; whoever built these things had not done it with vomiting in mind. He had to do it standing up, jackknifed in two, aiming down into the toilet. And quietly. The press corps erupted in laughter on the other side of the door – some joke, or was it him? Had they heard the retching? Had he looked as green as he felt, weaving up the aisle past them? “Hey, Mike, how were those dumplings? Save some for us?” Thumbs up, grin, can’t speak, mustn't puke on the reporters, just make it to the other side.

This could be bad. The papers, IFFY SICK ABOUT HIS CHANCES. RACIST MIKE GAGS ON FOOD IN CHINATOWN. “RISE UP”, INDEED! IGNATIEFF: HIS LUNCH CAME BACK FOR YOU.

When George H.W. threw up on the Japanese Prime Minister, his approval rating dipped for weeks. He couldn’t take a hit like that, not now. (And would they drag up Kinsella’s idiotic comment about BBQ cat, two years later?) Meanwhile, Jack and Olivia, all over town, eating pigs intestines and snake brains, grinning, jumping up and down. Snake brains would have been fine; he’d done that, plenty, in Afghanistan. Eaten rats in Kosovo, no fucking problem. Undone by a dumpling. God dammit. As Steven simpered in Tim Horton's, well-protected, taking no chances. Five questions a day and celery. But Steve liked hot sauce. Oooh, they cried. Play another Beatles song.

He could still feel the dumpling skin in his mouth, though he’d purged it all. There it was, a disgusting beige blob in the toilet, some creepy, amorphous underwater creature, its fins swirling under the surface. Some floated back up to the top, taunting him. He wanted to cry. He heaved some more, and spit. Dear God, please God, if they heard me, let them say I have the flu. Let them say that I’m a trooper. I ate it, didn’t I? I fed half to Christine – brilliant! – but I ate it. Like a man. Zsuzsanna will be proud.

He wiped his mouth with the tail of his red scarf. He flushed. Sprayed air freshener. Put on a smile. And headed out.

They Died With Their Boots On, or, A Lady Takes a Chance: The Legend of Calamity Norton

From VANCOUVER, British Columbia

March 17th, 2011

First things first. Hello, oh loyal friends, and welcome to a whole new era of Tourist-ness. The Vancouver Era. This new and momentous era may only last until September or October, who knows, but I like the word “era”, okay? ERA! Era era era! There, it’s stopped even looking like a word. Now I’ve done it.

In an exciting milestone for you fans of punctuation out there (Josh?), I am pleased to point out that my last blague post featured a single sentence that contained five commas, three semi-colons, one pair of brackets, some choice capitalization, a hyphen and two sets of ellipses. No italics, oddly. But yes, a partridge in a pear tree.

And a warm welcome to some new fans – Ashley O'Connell, as lucky reader one trillion and five (give or take a trillion), you've won a Skeptical Tourist pantsuit! It's too small for you and, well, made of pipe cleaners, which doesn't make for the utmost in pantsuit comfort, but it IS rather dashing...and made in the official Skeptical Tourist Sweatshop, which is staffed entirely by grown men serving time for use of the phrase "lol". If any of them is heard referring to something as "epically random" or "randomly epic", his scant pay is confiscated for that week. They’ve tried to start a union on facebook but keep getting distracted by links to Failblog and “People of Walmart” and Lady Gaga videos. Men these days. (Enjoy your pantsuit, Ashley!)

To Vancouver! Firstly, yes, it’s true: I did, in fact, land the first thing I auditioned for here. Though for all I know it may be the last gig I ever book, that fact sure does sound good, and will contribute nicely, I believe, to The Legend Of Scarborough Lill (my Wild West name; they make you pick one when you move out here).

YUP. THAT’S ME NOW.

The job is a JK Rowling biopic, Magic Beyond Words, for the Lifetime Network. And thus begins my career as sassy friend. When you do a JK Rowling biopic, Access Hollywood shows up on set and gets copious shots of your butt and the back of your head to share with all of TV land. So you may have seen that and been impressed. I sure was.

The other thing that happens is, authorized or not, Rowling herself is so wracked with curiosity about the thing that she has to watch it. So THE JK Rowling herself will see my face.

She may immediately think "What a stupid face", but who cares, too late, she'll have seen it. Or she might think, "What a wonderful face; I think I'll write a book about it". Substitute "ripping" for "wonderful" and "fancy" for "think", of course. (She's from England.)

In fact, for all I know, JK Rowling (or, as we in the know call her, Jojo, or just “bird” or “mate”, is stalking me already, even before this thing airs, based on the knowledge that I've played her sassy friend. She and Beyoncé have rented the house across the street and spend hours in the dark front room, passing back and forth the binoculars and egg salad sandwiches. They're over there right now, hovering over a laptop (the one used to create the final Harry Potter book) reading this out loud, at the same time as you. Don't you feel a little famous, just knowing that?

“PUT ON YOUR CLOAK, B. THEN SHE CAN’T SEE US.”

For those of you (actors) out there feeling that ugly yet inevitable twinge of jealousy and That Bitch-ness, there’s this: My love life is the pits, I’m still eye-deep in debt, and I have a heart murmur.

Is all this true? Maybe! Take it if you need it.

I’ve also turned to prostitution, which may mitigate the envy even further for some of you who frown on that sort of thing, though I consider it a good move, with benefits both social and financial. Proactive is what I call it. Plus prostitution is nicer here because of the warmer climate.

Before the sassy actor cash and the hookering bucks came along to improve my situation, funds got awful low. It’s strange to be in a new town and broke...I kept thinking that I wasn’t just the Tourist but a tourist, and therefore felt like I should be able leap gaily from concert to play to martini sushi opium parlour…and then keep getting slapped in the face by my reality, which said, "Hey kid, you're not a special guest anymore: you live here. Maybe. Sort of. Now go home to your basement apartment and eat some toast.” (With organic peanut butter, mind.)

I’ve been living, since January, at the downstairs apartment at my friend Jenny Young’s brother and sister-in-law’s place. Jon and Kim happen to be founding members of Vancouver’s acclaimed Electric Company Theatre, and have been out of town a lot, allowing me the run of the place…so I’ve had plenty of time to tuck copies of my photo and resume in strategic locations all over the house. I’m particularly proud of the laminated headshot hanging in their shower. I think they’ll like it, too.

I also get to take advantage of that modern-day housesitting tradition, wherein you temporarily become the Borg and plunder every bit of your hosts’ technology (ask your Trekkie friend to explain that joke if you don’t get it or are pretending not to). I’ve ripped all of their CDs, which in this house has amounted to a major indie band windfall, as well as taking cellphone pictures of each page of all their books and photocopying their sheets. I spread the pages on my bed and use them as an extra set of bedding and pretend I’m someone else. It’s all so wonderful.

TAKE ME TO YOUR WINTERSLEEP

And yes, just like you, I do feel a little bad whenever I steal music – and, like you, I get over it and do it anyway. Though, I must say, I do pay for my online tunes – I’m only guilty of the friend Borg-ing. But that’s probably bad enough. Perhaps I should have to adopt an indie band as penance.

We could develop a whole system of free music reparation. For instance: Illegally download one song – the band gets to come to your house and make a sandwich. Two songs, you make the sandwiches. Steal a whole album, they get to fuck your kids. or something. These are just guidelines.

But hey, the deal here includes my feeding and changing the litter of the weird resident cat, Meow Meow. I doubt the Borg do that. Or maybe it’s in the deleted scenes. Meow Meow also tricks me by acting affectionate and then leaping on my face with her claws out, which is her cute feline way of protesting my abuse of copyright law.

Come April I’ll get to go and suck all the technology out of another home, as I’m moving into a sublet at 15th and Maple. The poor, unfortunate tenant, a beautiful flaxen-haired young writer, is being forced to go live at her rich lawyer boyfriend’s house on the coast of Spain and go for long walks and observe stunning sunsets while working on her novel. I feel for her, I really do.

If it weren’t for my sympathy for Beautiful Bevin and her difficult situation, I surely would be moving into Green Margaret’s place. It had everything going for it: great west end location, unobstructed view of Stanley Park’s Lost Lagoon, meticulous German tenant who had outfitted the place with a nice green and white carpet covering the hardwood floors, green blankets, green trinkets, green bedspread on the SINGLE green skirt-wearing bed…

Oddly, I didn’t notice all this at first (okay, I definitely noticed the single bed – that, coupled with the fact that Margaret kept insisting on “no overnight guests, ja?”, meant I had to fight the urge to run screaming into the street). As I was leaving (politely, not screaming even a bit), Margaret complimented me on my bright green bag. I thanked her and pointed out that it matched her shirt rather well, to which she replied, with the stoniest of faces, “Ja, I only vear green.” That’s when I noticed. You might want to reconsider hiring me as a detective.

Of course, I can roll my eyes at Green Margaret and her tiny bed and weird apartment all I like, but the truth is, she sent me an email a week after our meeting telling me she’d decided to rent to someone else. She’s probably writing on her blog about how weird I was, with my nonmatching clothes, and calling me Rainbow Lisa.

Today is St Patrick’s Day, so Green Margaret is on my mind. I’ve a feeling I’ll think of her on this day every year, wondering whether this is a divine day for her, a day where she looks around at her green-clad fellow man and feels a kinship, thinks, “Mein Gott, they’ve finally got it”. Or is it a day when she looks around and thinks, “You bunch of phonies. You don’t know green like I know green”?

I wonder if she adds food colouring to everything she eats and drinks, all year round. OH, GREEN MARGARET, GET OUT OF MY HEAD! You emerald temptress, you!

Anyway, my new place, which Bevin thought I was cool enough for (take that, fraulein!), is cute and nice and has a grown-up bed. It’s also conveniently located a stone’s throw from both the West Coast Tropical Bird Studio and The Spy Store, which, combined, may help me develop my weird Bond villain persona. Parrot on the shoulder, or budgies in my pockets? What to do? And can I still be Scarborough Lill?

From there I will enjoy jaunts to Kits Beach on my borrowed bicycle, continue enjoying BC’s beautiful surroundings and fine friendly folk, venture out to Spanish and kayaking classes (and Spanish kayaking classes – “Ay Ay Ay! Me he caído en el océano!”)...

I’ll also attend the occasional audition, thanks to my fancy new agent who is awfully handsome and has astounding teeth. I hang around the office on the flimsiest of pretenses (“Just making sure the building’s still where I thought it was”; ”Do you guys need some gum?”…) in hopes of catching the occasional glimpse of their gleam. Of course, my agent in T.O. does triathlons and has the most amazing arms I've ever seen, and my Toronto voice agent, even despite wearing stupid slippers around the office, looks like a hotter Faye Dunawaye, so this new guy had better step up his regimen if he wants to hold onto me, boy. My new voice agent here is a marathon runner who wears nice boots, so things are looking good.

I’m keeping in shape with semi-regular visits to the downtown Y, which are just as regularly sabotaged by the presence of the original Japa Dog cart within a block, where I can enjoy a tasty 9000 calorie snack before and after each workout. I’ve resigned, however, to eat less Korobuta Terimayo dogs, ever since the Japa Dog staff not only refused my gracious offer of a picture for their “celebrity customers” photo board, but seemed unduly angry when they noticed me pasting my head onto Ice Cube’s body. There may have been a scene.

COME ON NOW, JAPA DOG. WHAT’S THIS GUY GOT THAT I AIN’T GOT?

To your future benefit, I’ll continue to wander and observe…trying to figure out a town that can have given us Botox and a chain of stores called “Mantique”, and at the same time support the world’s highest per capita concentration of white girls with dreads. (Is it wrong to want to kick those girls? I really, really want to kick them. Can I kick them?)

I’d planned to do the Grouse Grind climb weekly on arrival but haven’t gone once yet. My excuses are as follows: It’s too cold. It’s been too rainy. My knee is buggered from running. My bed here is comfortable. And, best of all: Nature Shmature, that’s for tourists. Apparently my one trek up Grouse Mountain last year is more than any of my friends who were born and raised here have done. I will do it soon, I swear.

As for rainy days, yeah, there have been one or two of those.

But you know what, all you dry Toronto gloaters going on about how sad and soggy I must be? I’ve got two words for you: wind chill factor. That’s three words. I’m a rebel. Anyway, we don’t have that here. If it says seven degrees it is seven goddamn degrees. I know all too well the agony of those Ontario weather reports:

“It’s twelve degrees”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“- but feels like minus forty with the windchill.”

“Then why don’t you just say minus forty, motherfuckers?!!”

I’ve embraced BC coffee culture, becoming one of those people laptopping at cafes. I even bought a mug from the lovely Our Town Cafe, to replace the ceramic Starbucks one I bought on tour, which, reflecting my state of mind at the time, cracked right down the middle. I almost got the green Our Town mug, glanced down at my green bag and my green-jacketed book (Alligator, by Lisa Moore), remembered Margaret, went with blue.

But truth is, I’ve eschewed the Cafe People and written much of this post at Budgies Burritos, which makes me feel less like a hipster and more like a romantic, struggling down-and-out writer, working away with a cheap taco hanging half out my mouth and refried beans smeared on my face. Except I only write a BLOG, for FREE, and what’s more hipster than that? Plus everything here is veggie or vegan, and there’s a squeaky-voiced customer at the counter telling the staff about her “kind of an art show”. But next to her there’s a construction worker and an old guy who keeps burping while he eats. Ah, B.C.

I do think there’s something in the idea that everyone should move to a new town once in a while. I’ve never done it before, except for gigs, and hell, it is invigorating. It can be a little lonely, not having your same old gang at hand, but it’s also exciting and challenging. I'm making new friends, it’s giving me a kick in the ass, career-wise, in that nobody knows who the hell I am and I’ve got something to prove all over again, and I’m stretching my brain into new shapes…and apparently becoming ridiculously earnest and prone to spewing smug inspirational bullshit. GOD! What the hell was THAT??? Somebody needs a green cider.

So that’s enough blarney outta me.

EXCEPT…

Consider, friends, what reading this blague has done for you today. And consider every other day you’ve enjoyed the wisdom of the Tourist AT NO COST WHATSOEVER. For some of you this has been going on for years, this free delivery of guffaws, chuckles, smiles, and insight. Think of the value. Yet while I may very well begin charging exorbitant amounts for entry (as well as a complicated sign-in process and a webcam video proving that you are wearing a silly hat and doing the required dance), THIS MONTH I ask that you instead donate that money to the relief effort in Japan. Let’s say five bucks per laugh. So if you laughed five times, a modest twenty-five bucks to the Red Cross or someone. And if you didn’t laugh at all? In that case, you are clearly a black hole of humour, a very scourge on humanity, so a big fat donation is the least you can do to start justifying your presence on Earth. I’ll tell you what, it needn’t even be made in my name.

http://www.cbc.ca/japanrelief/ has a great list of links to reputable charities’ donation pages. Please help. If nothing else, it will get you in my good books. You might even win a pantsuit.

Yours, soggy and true,

The Tourist